The Mummy Car

The Heiress named it the mummy car because it was usually Mummy who drove her around in it. The mummy car made many a trip between Collingwood and South Melbourne in the peak-our traffic, with Grumpy Girl desperately trying to keep The Heiress amused by singing, playing word games and telling stories.

I bought the mummy car when Grump and Matt took The Heiress to Germany seven weeks ago but, owing to what Kinsley Amis called a “Bum Recital” (AAMI bum, roadworthy bum, VicRoads bum, City of Port Phillip bum, man-across-the-road-bum …) I only drove it for the first time today and will have to drive it home (in the dark) tonight.

For 40 years I have driven a manual car: the mummy car is automatic. There doesn’t seem to be enough for me to do. What have I forgotten? Gears? Clutch? Hardest of all is the leap of faith required to believe the car won’t roll back when I take my foot off the brake. Can it be true? I have done my last handbrake start? Corner of Toorak and Tooronga – bring it on!



I was very nervous this morning, grimly clutching the steering wheel and not daring to put the radio on (that’ll soon change – can’t get home without Francis and Ox). Then I tuned in to the good vibes left behind by Grumpy and The Heiress and knew I was safe. The wheels on the car would go round and round, round and round and the person in the car would be protected by familiar mitochondrial DNA, notwithstanding the driver behind going toot, toot, toot! Toot, toot, toot! All the way to town.

Endless weekend

Our third weekend without The Heiress and definitely the worst. The first one was spent cleaning up the aftermath of 3 extra bodies and their stuff in our small apartment and the second one was Easter with its distractions. But yesterday the Great Nothingness descended. What did we do on weekends in the olden days before Mads was born?

We began the day at Camby Market which Dr Shed loves and I tolerate once per decade. We left there with a supply of rusty washboards, useless tools and fresh colds.
From there it was off to DFO for some el cheapo tees, whose relative newness was the only thing distinguishing them from the dejected-looking clothing at Camby.
This was followed by a walk around Albert Park Lake throwing thawing cake at the ducks. (I had at last found time to clean out the freezer).

The afternoon loomed ominously ahead. Half an hour on Skype talking to Grumpy Girl made me feel both better and worse. It’s fab technology but there’s no bod to bod. Grandparents need cuddles.

The Heiress has gone. To live in Germany. So have her mum, Grumpy Girl and dad, Matthew. Dr Shed and I have lost our first born daughter and our only grandchild. It is very very depressing. What’ll we do on weekends now? No more play parks, babychinos, Hooble Dooble DVDs, bath toys or playdough. No more singing nursery rhymes in the car, no more tram rides along St Kilda Rd pointing out the floral clock, the Arts Centre spire and Mummy’s old school (VCA). No more lying on the floor of the Great Hall, choosing our favourite colour leadlight in the ceiling.

No more chirping little girl voice, no more warm bod to bod cuddles, no more kissing the cheek of a sleeping angel.

Grumpy Girl has now sold 400,000 copies of her 17 books. Here is a picture of her and her little family on the night of the launch of her 18th. Note The Heiress in her Madeline outsuit (as she calls it)

Parking Schmarking

Because Dr. Shed has the garage stuffed with a wild variety of objects, useful, not useful, bizarre, unidentifiable and just a bloody nuisance, we cannot get either of our cars in there. We have to find two parking spots in the street and when we nab ones close to home we become extremely reluctant to move our cars at all, preferring to walk, catch a tram or a taxi or simply stay home.
We try hard to avoid moving both cars at once and if one of us leaves the other lines up behind and zips into the spot quickly so that no passing random grabs it.
The trickiest time is after work. There is a window of opportunity between 5 and 6 when the St. Kilda Road office workers head back to the ‘burbs, and the neighbours arrive home. I never get home before 6 and often have to park illegally. We then spend the evening competing for any spot that opens up. We have a slight advantage over most of our rivals. From our apartment we can see empty places out the window and can hear car doors slam and ignitions start. We react like Pavlov’s dogs: leaping to our feet, grabbing our keys, running down two flights of stairs and dashing across the road, often to be gazumped by a neighbour who lives on the lower floor. When this happens we act nonchalant and pretend we were just going out to collect something from our car so that we don’t look as foolish as we feel.
Some nights we are feeling quite satisfied with the spots we have until one of us makes the mistake of glancing out the window. A spot closer to home represents an irresistible Upgrade Opportunity and we are compelled to dash down again to secure it.
On the weekends the problem is different. The Blow-ins from Baysie arrive to enjoy some of St Kilda’s sophistication which, unfortunately, never seems to rub off on them. It’s maddening to lose a spot to a Bayswater bogan. I much prefer the classier visitors to the Indonesian embassy a couple of doors down. They are very sedate and always go home early and sober.
Then there’s the Grand Prix, the Million Paws Walk and the extraordinary intrusion of the Melbourne Marathon. Don’t get me started.

Limerick for a departing campus nurse

Oh, how we will miss our Nurse Trout!
She keeps us from growing too stout
She checks out the fannies
Of girls, mums and grannies
And tells them they’re all up the spout!

Pools

There are four swimming pools in my life: the ‘Fred’, the ‘Harry’, the ‘Jock’ and the ‘Albert’ each with its own unique ambience.

The daggy old Fred was originally called the Fred Dwerryhouse Swimming Pool but now has the far less interesting name, Ringwood Aquatic Centre. I swim here to avoid the peak-hour traffic on my long trip home. The Fred has truly bizarre showers - the water is on a timer and each cubicle is different. The most generous allows you a minute but the one I was in earlier this week gave me only 7 seconds.

Visiting the Harry, the ironically named Harold Holt Memorial Swim Centre (it turned out he couldn’t) is like taking a trip to Lourdes. There are lots of very elderly and infirm folk drifting along hoping for a miracle. The lanes aren’t labeled Fast, Medium and Slow but ‘Visible Signs of Life’, ‘Float Like a Lotus Blossom’ and ‘I’m Not Waving, I’m Drowning!’

The Jock is the pool at Melbourne High School and it’s for serious swimmers. You rarely have to share a lane here and can swim unimpeded. I occasionally get to swim beside budding young AFL players, usually from Richmond so I’m keeping a lookout for Ben Cousins. There are one or two things I’d like to say to him.

The Albert, aka Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre, in Albert Park, in an unpredictable place. Ordinary mortals are regularly excluded because of competitions or even if Leisel, Libby or Eamon feel like training that day. But if I do get in I’m treated to a cacophony of sound and light, waves, water slides, fountains, music, aerobics and sometimes the hilarious sight of synchronized swimmers practicing their routine on the side of the pool. If you think it looks funny in the water, wait ‘til you see them doing it on dry land. Great entertainment.